Cleaning

The new flat is getting dirty. I have lived in it.
I have friends here. They have lived in it with me.
On Wednesdays I clean.

It gives me back my pride. I have a system.
I take out the hoover. Then I spray all the surfaces
With the secret ingredient. Bathroom: shower head,
taps, bathtub, sink and bowl. Kitchen:
sink, hob tops, cupboards and kettle.

A soft cloth: wipe wipe wipe. Dirty fingerprints gone,
Residues vanish. I do the bits that people miss:
skirting, grouting, top of the extractor.
I wipe grudging greasy muck and flush it away.

A scouring sponge: scrub scrub scrub. Tiling,
stained stainless steel and fiddly in-between bits.
Rinse and polish polish polish.

I wish I had been so careful before. I used to be sloppy.
When I lived with you, our lives were a mess.
In the sink: crockery untended.
The dishwasher was always full.
In every room: drifts of unwashed washing,
Damp settling in on ledges,
Carpets full of mud.
We didn’t own an iron.
In the basement: empty bottles in unseen piles.
You: guilt. Me: denial. The rot set in.
We planned our lives on a rug you’d swept your secrets underneath.

I developed my own.
I hurt you as you hurt me.
I dirtied my own soul.
You were wipe-clean.

Hoovering time: sitting room,
hallway, bathroom and kitchen.
I get down to clean on hands and knees
and find a spot of my own blood on the lino.

I’m clean again now. I don’t know about you.